


Be Married Now and Forevermore

by berrymascarpone



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, Secret Identity, Supernatural Creatures, Tengu, kodama - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 06:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrymascarpone/pseuds/berrymascarpone
Summary: Madara glances up. From this angle, he can see Hashirama’s face shining in the morning light, smiling so brightly it makes his heart do strange things in his chest. A thought skirts across his mind, and the sex must have temporarily disabled his filters because he blurts it out before fully registering the implications.“Marry me.”





	Be Married Now and Forevermore

Madara doesn’t know what brought it on. Perhaps Hashirama dragged him to one too many cheesy romantic movies that ended in white dresses and wedding vows, perhaps he saw too many cute couples getting down on one knee in the internet videos that his coworker liked to watch instead of doing actual work, or maybe the insanity that is the human world has finally seeped into his brain and rotted it from the core like a moldy radish. All he knows is that he’s lying in bed—or, more specifically, stretched across Hashirama’s broad chest like a cat in the sun, boneless and satiated, when Hashirama says, “Happy anniversary, Madara.”

And yes, Madara will never forget that day when he first saw the human across the riverbank, tall and bronze and beautiful, like sunlight and summer made incarnate, but anniversaries are such a human thing, a mortal thing. A year is so short for someone who has watched rivers carve out valleys between the mountains, brief as the flap of a wing, but Hashirama celebrates each one like it’s a triumph. And it’s not like he can tell Hashirama how the lifespan of his kind last longer than the typical few decades that humans get.

“Mmh,” he says, still feeling like his bones are liquid and his marrow is slowly cooling molten rock.

“You know, when we first met ten years ago, I never thought I’d be so happy.” Hashirama continues. There’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerable brittleness, as if he’s about to walk out onto a thin branch in high winds. But still, there’s sincerity in his voice, because Hashirama could never be anything but sincere. Madara has the sudden feeling of vertigo that he hasn’t felt since his first attempts to fly as a fledgling, his stomach dropping out from underneath him. He feels like something important is about to happen, the pressure building under his skin.

Madara glances up. From this angle, he can see Hashirama’s face shining in the morning light, smiling so brightly it makes his heart do strange things in his chest. He wants to burst with the feeling (happiness, he thinks, drunk on the warm honey feeling) wants to shout from the highest peak of the mountain. A thought skirts across his mind, and the sex must have temporarily disabled his filters, because he blurts it out before fully registering the implications.

“Marry me.”

The broad chest under his cheek goes still for a full six seconds, and he almost feels a twinge of concern—humans are so fragile, with such thin veins and weak hearts and lungs that struggle to function at a mere few thousand meters of altitude—before Hashirama lets out an ear-splitting screech that sends him shooting backwards in shock.

“Madara!” he shouts, “Are you asking me to marry you?”

Madara finds himself squeezed between strong arms, against the hard chest again, which he isn’t complaining about, but he would still like to breathe.

“Let go,” he chokes, then adds, because he’s in a good mood and why the hell not, “Yes, you damn idiot. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hashirama’s scream of acceptance probably shakes loose the tiles from their roof, and he almost loses an arm via strangulation by hug, but he cannot find it in himself to regret it, especially not when Hashirama kisses him deeply, with tongue.

Then he flips them over, pressing Madara into the mattress with the firm weight of his wonderfully strong (for a human) arms and murmurs, “I think we should celebrate. Now that we’re engaged and all, that is.”

 

He feels good about the proposal for a good half a day, right up until he wobbles over to the balcony door, determined to catch the last of the sunshine after a day—albeit a wonderfully satisfactory day—spent in bed. He gets a face full of dark feathers, and when he bats the offending limb away, spitting out pinions, he gets the full force of Izuna’s pout.

“Izuna!” he sputters, “Why are you doing on my porch?” he gestures towards the feathers, “Put those away, the neighbors will see!”

“When were you going to tell me?” Izuna says, crossing his arms across his chest. But he obligingly folds his wings back until they appear to melt into the back of his jacket. A leather bomber jacket over his traditional robes, looking as out of place as a chicken wrapped in alligator skin.

“Tell you what?”

“That you’re getting married!”

Madara feels a sudden headache oncoming. He sits down on the floor of the balcony, and groans, “How in Izanagi’s name do you know about that already?”

“A raven was passing by your window this morning and heard something interesting. She told the Karasu Tengu that lives in your neighbor’s cherry tree, who is friends with Kagami, who went to Hikaku to ask if it was true,” he waved his hand, clutching something sleek and black, a cell phone, “and I want to know why I had to find out via text, from Hikaku instead of from my dearest brother himself.”

“I…didn’t know you had a phone.”

Izuna levels him with an unimpressed look that would have made the storm god himself squirm in his seat like a misbehaving five-year-old. “It’s the twenty-first century,” he says, “everyone has a phone.”

Madara wants to pout. What happened to ‘don’t bother me about that inane human trash’ and ‘why are you turning your back on us to go live in that filthy human city, Madara’? When had his darling brother who followed him around like a duckling become a rebellious teenage know-it-all?

“It only happened this morning,” he grumbles, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you on the phone I didn’t know you had. And I was busy.” His frown turns into a smile as he remembers exactly what he was busy with.

Izuna makes a sound of disgust, but uncrosses his arms. It’s as good as forgiveness, but he still squints at Madara, like a hawk tracking a mouse in the grass, and says, “Whatever. You better invite me to the wedding though.”

 

Wedding planning…could go better. Madara didn’t realize when he uttered the proposal that there were so many steps involved. They have to choose an auspicious date, decide between Buddhist or Shinto or secular style, choose the rings, order the flowers, the cake, the food—the options make his head spin. But he persists. For Hashirama, he can brave any number of cake tastings and catalogs and internet boards. If he’s really desperate, he can even brave asking Hashirama’s friend and distant relative Mito, who is a girl, albeit a scary one that runs a shrine, and should know about things like weddings, right? (She laughs at him when he asks, but obligingly helps him color coordinate and mercilessly shoots down his suggestion of red and black decorations)

Panic doesn’t set in until Hashirama looks up from a wedding magazine and asks, “Madara, who do you want to invite from your family?”

Madara’s brain freezes, like he’s taken too large a bite of ice cream. Now, Madara loves his family. He has fought for them and bled for them and banished rabbit-goddesses from the moon for them. But, well, they aren’t exactly the most inviting, or the most approving of his relationship with a human he found in the woods, no matter how broad his chest or how musical his laugh. And of course, Hashirama’s family will be there. He hasn’t met Hashirama’s family, but from what he has gathered from his boyfriends’—his fiancé’ now, he thinks with a warm bubbly feeling—descriptions of the great halls and expansive forests of his childhood, they’re probably loaded.

He suddenly thinks of the tiny apartment they share, warm and cozy but barely enough for a queen-sized bed and tiny kitchen, his mediocre desk job (because ruling a Tengu clan and fighting off supernatural threats to the world can’t exactly go on his resume), the closets filled almost entirely with threadbare clothes and stray feathers, and he wonders what Hashirama’s family would think exactly, of this interloper who stole their beautiful son to live a life of poverty and squalor.

“Um,” he meets Hashirama’s expectant gaze with the wide-eyed look of a cat thrown suddenly into a washing machine, “I suddenly remembered I have a…meeting. An important meeting.” He stutters. And before he can see the look on Hashirama’s face, he bolts out the door like a startled pigeon.

 

He should be making a list, he thinks, of the relatives least likely to accidentally let out a wing, or summon a gale wind when drunk, or make some joke about turning invisible and dive bombing the tourists at the temple. Instead, he does what he always does in times of doubt, and flies home to bother Izuna. His brother, who is an irrecusably irritating brat and absolutely no use at all, sits on the branch across from him with a leg dangling over the side, and listens to his woes with an increasingly bored look on his face.

“So you have cold feet,” Izuna says, as unhelpful as ever, even after Madara spent so much of their childhood retrieving him from all sorts of mishaps and trouble. The ungrateful brat.

“I do not!” he snaps, “We are getting married, and we will live happily ever after for the rest of his life!”

“Then why are you so worked up about what his family thinks? Or what our family thinks?”

“It’s not that simple!”

“It’s not that complicated, either.” Izuna says, merciless as ever.

“What if they expect some huge elaborate wedding with gold-trimmed cake and crystal chandeliers? What if Hashirama’s family convinces him I’m a failure as a human and he goes back to live his life of luxury? What if someone slips up and gets stuck in the rafters? What if Hashirama realizes our family is insane and not human, and runs screaming in the opposite direction?” Madara says, and if there’s a hint of hysteria in his voice, he chooses to ignore it as justified. Visions of the chaos his family would cause fill his mind: raining frogs, people’s faces turning all colors of the rainbow, and everything on fire. He shudders.

“If that’s all it takes to scare him away, he can fuck right off,” Izuna sniffs, but there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, “Without a few important body parts.”

“Izuna!” Madara protests, crushing down the slight prick of delight he feels at his brother’s protectiveness, “No, bad, no scaring away the other groom!” And besides, Hashirama wouldn’t actually run. Probably.

Izuna sighs, heavily, like he’s about to start pulling out his feathers or his hair. He places a hand on Madara’s shoulder, with more force than necessary.

“Look,” he says, in the tone of voice usually reserved for small children who have been asking ‘why’ for three hours, “it’s obvious that you love him. And if he’s good enough for you, he’s good enough for me, and fuck what everyone else thinks.”

Madara feels something well up in him, suspiciously like gratitude. His eyes are definitely not wet, and his throat feels thick with emotion. He reaches out a wing tip to brush Izuna’s in silent thanks.

“But,” Izuna adds, “If I’m not your best man, I swear by my tailfeathers that I will hide a fish in your bed every day for the next twenty years.”

 

He’s home early, sitting at the counter and viciously chugging a too-hot cup of tea after a long day—Tomiko-san had taken one look at him that morning and _known_ , with some mysterious middle-aged-lady sense, and began babbling congratulations about his engagement, and asking about wedding dates and colors—when he feels strong arms wrap around him from behind.

“Hmm,” Hashirama murmurs, burying his face into long untamed hair. He’s just gotten back from a job, designing the landscape of some rich mansion’s garden, and he smells like sweat, freshly turned earth and crushed grass. It reminds Madara of the forest in summer, cicadas and sun-warmed bark, and he sinks down into it, feeling the tension melt out of him.

“You know,” Hashirama says, and there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice, “You don’t have to invite anyone if you don’t want to. I know some families can be—not okay with this kind of relationship. We can even ask Mito to be your best man.”

Madara knows that some humans have stringent views on who should and should not be able to get married, or love each other, but Tengu are more free with their love, and looser with their social rules. Even if some of the elders are of the outdated mindset that the younger generation should stay away from the corrupting influence of modern humans who don’t respect the old ways. He’s touched, nonetheless, that Hashirama made the offer, warmth welling up in his chest.

“No,” he says, “Thank you, but it’s not—my family doesn’t disapprove of us. Not all of them.” And the exceptions do not disapprove for the reasons Hashirama thinks. “They’ll love you,” he adds, with more conviction than he feels. Even the grumpiest elder would love Hashirama, and if anyone doesn’t, he will _make them_.

Hashirama’s arms tighten around him. “That’s good,” he says, and Madara can hear the smile in it.

He’s suddenly deliriously happy. Wildly, drunkenly happy, because he’s getting _married_ , to _Hashirama_ , who has amazing biceps and magic fingers and smells like a spring meadow, who stuck with him when he struggled to adjust to this strange human world and accepts his odd habits and mysterious past, who packs him lunch every morning and does the dishes every night, and looks at him like he’s hung the moon in the sky.

He turns around and pulls Hashirama forward into a kiss, hard and deep, as if he could drink in everything that makes him perfect. Hashirama reciprocates, slowly at first, then with more vigor. When they finally break apart for air, they’re both breathing hard, but they stay close, foreheads touching.

“Besides,” Madara says, in the sliver of space between their faces, “my brother would kill me if I didn’t invite him.”

 

In the end, he decides to invite Izuna, because fish in his bed is not conducive towards a fulfilling marriage, Hikaku because he has been a loyal third in command and Madara trusts him with his life, Kagami because fuck it he already knows, and Fugaku’s family, because Sasuke is too young to manifest wings yet, Itachi is a darling angel who physically cannot do any wrong, and Mikoto is half human (her mother had been the type of Tengu to lure weary travelers to her nest to have her wicked way with them, back before travelers had GPS and high speed railways that bypass the forest paths) and, more importantly, a stone-cold bitch who can drop eagles with a glare and will castrate anyone who is on anything less than their best behavior during the wedding. He pointedly does not invite any of the elders, who still hold out hope that they can convince him to abandon his life of indolence and sin among the lowly human masses through sheer power of nagging.

Hashirama has invited his three younger brothers, a close cousin Touka, and a distant cousin—Uzumaki Kushina, who is bringing her husband and small child, so at least Sasuke won’t be lonely—that he apparently shares with Mito through some tangled branch of the family tree. Mito, at least, is a familiar face. Since she runs a local shrine dedicated to the fox goddess, they ask her to officiate.

It’s a small party, but they’ve decided on a small wedding, secular so they rent out a floor at a scenic hotel for the ceremony and reception. The hotel overlooks a mountain, green with spring growth and flush with birdsong, and the ballroom opens out onto a sweeping balcony, letting in the spring breeze that still carries a hint of winter’s chill. Madara finds himself in formal wear pacing outside an hour early, waiting for their families to show up.

Hashirama seems almost as nervous as him, at least, running his hand through his hair until Madara pulls it away to prevent him from ruining the careful style that Mito had carefully sculpted that morning. He locks their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly.

“We’ve already chosen this,” he says, solemn, remembering what his brother said to him, “And that’s all that matters. Fuck what everyone else thinks.”

It must be the right thing, because Hashirama’s smile, though tremulous, is blindingly happy. Whatever happens, even if Hashirama’s family thinks he’s a poor peasant who doesn’t deserve their dearest brother, even if the clan elders come down and rain frogs on the wedding, he’ll still have Hashirama at the end of it all.

Madara’s family arrives first, and he feels a jolt of relief at the sight of Izuna, heading the small Uchiha entourage with Hikaku and Fugaku flanking his sides in a battle formation, like some small-time mob boss. They’re dressed in formal kimono, real clothing instead of transformed leaves or illusions that they use for their usual forays into the human world. Mikoto’s work, no doubt. He knew he liked that woman for a reason, and he sends her a grateful look. She smiles beatifically from behind, Sasuke clutched in one arm, her opposite hand holding Itachi’s. Kagami looks much too excited and curious, glancing around like it’s the first time he’s seen anything human. Which, Madara thinks with a wince, it probably is. He prays to gods that the brat doesn’t start climbing anything.

He introduces them, glaring at the younger ones to _behave_ when Hashirama’s back is turned. Izuna looks Hashirama up and down, like a mother hen eyeing the barn cat, but when Hashirama beams and bows and holds out a hand for him to shake, he takes it without any insults. It’s a start, Madara supposes.

They’re just done with introductions when Hashirama’s family arrives. He bounds over, like an overeager puppy, and embraces them all as if he hasn’t seen them in years. Now that he thinks about it, Madara can’t remember the last time Hashirama took time off to go visit family. A hint of guilt flashes through him; had Hashirama been avoiding his family because of their relationship? He’d forgotten how fast time passed for humans, and though ten years was a flash to him, it seemed like a good chunk of the human lifespan. Perhaps he should have said something sooner...But Hashirama is dragging him over soon enough, and he shelves the thought.

“This is my brother Tobirama,” Hashirama says, ushering him before a tall icicle of a man.

 “And that’s Itama, and Kawarama. And my cousin Touka.” Hashirama continues, oblivious, He slings an arm around Madara’s shoulders to pull him close. “And this is my soon-to-be husband Madara!”

As expected, they look like they’ve just stepped out of fashion magazines; tall, thin Tobirama, pale as a ghost; shy, lanky Itama just growing into his limbs, and adorable Kawarama, gap-toothed and lisping, as excited yet still perfectly dressed in a formal kimono. Touka, just as tall as her older cousins and willowy, dark hair tied up high and brushing the back of her dress. Madara bows politely and stumbles out a greeting, and Tobirama, who Madara gathers is the hardest to impress, looks down at him through narrowed eyes as flat as polished garnet.

It’s an expression Madara can’t read at all. Nevertheless he gets a sense that he’s being judged, silently, by some criteria he can’t decipher. He tries to smile and nod. Be friendly, look alive, pretend you’re not screaming internally like the drama queen you are, as Mito would say. Tobirama remains impassive as a tundra in winter. It is only when his eyes flicker to Hashirama that Madara sees something in them, a hint of the protectiveness reserved solely for brothers that can be colossal idiots but whom they love regardless. He feels something ease in his chest, because there can never be too many people looking out for Hashirama, the big, naïve oaf. But Tobirama returns his bow, and doesn’t mention anything about low annual salaries or how big their house is, or why he thinks he deserves their brother’s hand in marriage.

Madara lets out a breath when Mito arrives, a whirlwind of activity and a great distraction from whatever one-sided conversation he was having with Hashirama’s brother through inscrutable gazes. As infuriating as the woman could be, he is grateful to have her here, on this day. She sends him a grin, sly and yet somehow reassuring. She’s even brought her cousin, Kushina, who is louder and brasher than her, a feat he previously thought impossible. It’s only her husband, Minato, holding their blonde son with one hand and the back of Kushina’s collar with the other, that keeps her from tackling the grooms as a greeting.

“Let’s get this party started!” Mito announces, leaping on to the small stage in the ballroom, formal robes fluttering around her like flower petals in a windstorm. Hashirama laughs, Madara sighs, the guests make their way to their seats.

Madara straightens his spine, slips his hand into Hashirama’s, and makes his way to the stage. Everything will be fine.

 

The speeches are long and mortifying; Izuna tells his most embarrassing childhood stories with all the wings and trickster magic edited out, and Tobirama expresses his delight that his slacker brother has finally found someone gullible enough to put up with him for the rest of their lives. By the end, Madara is wondering why he didn’t let Izuna fall out of a tree when they were children. It would certainly have saved him a lifetime’s worth of embarrassment.

The wedding vows are standard; love and devotion, in sickness and health, till death do them part. These are promises he’s made to Hashirama before, silently, hidden mute in his heart. Saying the words out loud, hearing them said back, solidifies something in him, like the deep roots of a great tree, anchoring him more steadily than he ever dared hope possible. He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing. Hashirama sniffs and looks on the verge of bawling his eyes out, but his smile is wider than Madara’s ever seen it, and brighter than the sun.

Itachi strides up the steps with the rings with uncharacteristic grace for someone his age, cherubic face like a gift from the heavens, and Madara takes them, slipping one onto Hashirama’s finger, while his husband—and even his heart seems to flutter into the clouds at that thought—slips one onto his.

“You may now kiss the groom!” Mito proclaims loudly. Then, she smiles a wicked fox-grin, places a hand the each of their heads, and smashes their faces together. The kiss is messy at first, teeth clicking together in their surprise, but Madara grabs Hashirama’s face in his hands and slots their mouths together, and it turns into something softer, more comfortable, something full of promise.

For a brief moment sweet as crystalized light, everything is perfect.

It’s not till the reception that everything goes to hell.

 

He expects the disaster to come from Kagami, who is much too interested in Tobirama’s description of his job as a scientist at a local university, staring at the man with unabashed hero worship, or even Izuna, who is sending longing gazes towards Touka, despite the fact that Madara’s sure she could crush his head with her thighs that just peek out from the slit in her dress. He has always been attracted to dangerous things like a crow to shiny baubles.

Instead, it’s little Sasuke who finally drops the other shoe.

Madara doesn’t see what happens, exactly. All he knows is he hears a desolate cry, glances over to see Mikoto and Kushina pulling their children away for bedtime, and the brats are reaching out for each other like star-crossed lovers about to be separated by the milky way. He feels it before it happens, a faint tug of spiritual energy, and he has enough time to think _Oh hell_ before Sasuke lets out a loud wail, and his wings manifest spontaneously, in a spray of downy grey feathers directly in his mother’s face.

Everyone freezes.

A thousand thoughts running through Madara’s head—maybe no one’s noticed, maybe he could distract him with something, anything, maybe he doesn’t have to watch the façade of the last ten years crumble like an under-baked gingerbread house.

There’s another puff, and Naruto, who has taken his mother’s moment of hesitation to wiggle out of her arms and leap towards Sasuke with a surprising spryness, lands with a few extra limbs behind him. Nine extra limbs, all of which are tails, red and fluffy. Madara’s brain reboots as he stares. Naruto is a nine-tailed fox, and Sasuke is a Tengu child, and this is not the wedding he had in mind at all.

The silence in the room is thick enough to cut with a spoon and wiggle around like jello. Madara feels the cold sweat pool at the back of his neck, sick feeling rising in his stomach. He glances at Hashirama out of the corner of his eye and stills when he catches Hashirama’s eyes on him as well.

 “I can explain!” Madara blurts out, before his mind can catch up, “well, I can explain Sasuke. He’s not supposed to _have_ wings yet, so I thought it’d be okay for him to come. He doesn’t have any friends his age back home, so I guess he got really attached to Naruto and—” he stops, not really sure where to go from there. And he grew wings because we’re actually a family of supernatural creatures with wings that live in the mountains and that’s why you’ve never met my family before and I’m going to live thousands of years more while you wrinkle up like a dried prune and die of old age within your short human lifespan?

Maybe Hashirama would believe it’s a trick of the light. Mikoto surreptitiously coughs a few feathers into her hand, watching in bemusement as Naruto, face now marked with a pattern of whiskers, rubs his face all over Sasuke like a puppy.

Madara winces, probably not.

“He’s—that’s—” Hashirama babbles, then stops, takes a deep breath, and asks, “Are you—a Tengu?”

Madara nods meekly, then frowns, “Wait, how do you know Tengu?”

Instead of answering, Hashirama lets out a laugh, and throws his arms around Madara, squeezing tighter than a clingy octopus.

“You’re—not mad?” Madara says, once he has caught his breath. There’s tremulous hope in his voice.

In response, Hashirama smiles, and raises a hand. There are—stems growing out of his sleeves, pouring out like a waterfall of greenery. Madara watches, mouth agape, as the stems sprout buds, that bloom into chrysanthemum flowers, orange and yellow and red. His favorite. He remembers like an afterthought, how Hashirama seemed to be able to find them any time of year.

“You—you’re a—” his brain is broken, cracked right down the middle as he tries to re-contextualize the past decade. Is anything even real anymore? Maybe he fell out of one too many tree and is actually lying in a coma somewhere, dreaming it all in his head.

“Kodama!” Hashirama declares, “My whole family too. I wanted to tell you, the day of our anniversary, but well.” he gestures towards the wedding, still smiling. “Oh, and Kushina and Mito are kitsune.”

Madara spares a glance at the Mito, who winks and, Izanagi, are those red fox ears right next to her hair buns? He needs to think, needs to shut himself up in a dark room somewhere and digest what just happened today, pick apart his emotions before he drowns in them. But there are too many people staring at them, surrounding them, looking tense as if they’re waiting for the inevitable eruption, the explosion of all their carefully-kept secrets going up at once in a giant conflagration.

He manifests his wings, wide enough to stretch almost wall-to-wall, and folds the inky feathers over himself, blocking out all the eyes, encasing him in soothing, warmth. He includes Hashirama, of course, mostly because the idiot is still clinging to him like a limpet. It’s dark in his feathered blanket fort, and he sinks down to the ground, knees suddenly giving way.

 “My life is a lie,” Madara mumbles, into his knees, “ _Your_ life is a lie.” He glares up towards Hashirama, who has to crouch to fit in the wing bubble and has his arms around Madara’s neck still. He’s not sure who’s at fault here, because he’s kept just as much hidden in his attempt to be human, fit in to the society he thought was Hashirama’s world. They’ve both been lying to each other, keeping things hidden, and that’s not an auspicious start to a marriage. But he had thought, that day at the river bank, and all the days after, that he would do anything to stay by the side of this beautiful creature, even if he needed to hide his wings and get a human job and fend off angry elders for the rest of eternity. But now, it looks like things are slipping away, his whole married life oozing out from between his fingers like broken egg yolks.

He realizes that he’s waiting for the anger, the betrayed looks, the inevitable blow-up of everything in his face. Hashirama should be mad. _He_ should be mad. Instead, his eyes itch, and there’s a tightness at the back of his throat, like he’s swallowed a bunch of angry crabs.

“Hey,” Hashirama says, cupping his face with large, warm hands that don’t feel angry at all, “It’s not a lie. Not the parts that matter.” He holds up Madara’s hand, the one with the ring on it, and interlocks their fingers, “We’re still married, you know. Till death do us part. No take-backs.”

Madara snorts, a wet sound that turns into a sniffle. Hashirama was always a better man than him, too kind, forgiving too easily. And in the next breath he realizes that he’s forgiven Hashirama’s deception too, because how could he not with the way those soft brown eyes stare at him like he’s the hinge on which everything good in the world hangs, the center of a personal universe.

“Even if I snore in my sleep and drop feathers all over your nice clothes?” he asks.

“Even then.” Hashirama’s voice is firm, as if he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. And this is just another tally on the list of reasons Madara loves him; he is an absolute rock, a bastion of strength that won’t crumble against whatever waves the world can throw at them, and Madara is attaching himself like a barnacle and never letting go.

“No take-backs then.” He says, and pulls Hashirama into a kiss.

They’re still kissing when Madara lifts his wings, folding them back into the dark fabric of his suit, where they melt into shadows. There’s a beat of silence, and then someone—he suspects Kagami—starts to cheer, and it’s like the wedding ceremony all over again.

Izuna claps him on the back, and Tobirama places a hand on Hashirama’s shoulder.

“I told you everything would turn out just fine,” Izuna said, smugly, “and also, Hikaku owes me three thousand yen since you told him within a year.”

Madara’s glare is half-hearted at best. He’s still floating on the high, thinking about their future. He won’t have to watch Hashirama grow old and wrinkly until he’s old and wrinkly too, he won’t have to sneak out to go stretch his wings, he could take Hashirama with him too and show him how Konoha looks from between the red-streaked clouds at sunset.

Hashirama is beaming and saying to his brother, “I told you he’d take it well!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, “That’s an unfair assertion. Clearly I didn’t have all the information earlier.” But he looks at Madara approvingly, as if he’s passed some unspoken test.

And Mito grabs the both of them, brushing a tail against each of their calves, and declares, “Finally, I was getting so tired of you both pretending to be boring humans. We need to go out and get _really_ drunk one of these days, not just pretend drunk because you’re afraid humans can’t hold their alcohol. I heard Tengu brew the best sake, Madara, you’ve been holding out on us!"

Madara feels light, like his bones have turned to sunshine, and breathless like he’s flying high above the clouds where the air is thin. _Now_ , he thinks, _this really is a perfect moment_.

 


End file.
